Just the way you look tonight,,,

At Cutter Court on Lighthouse Lane the weather is presently 41°F and cloudy.  The 10-day forecast is sunny but lows near freezing and highs below 56°F. The wind today is 18 km/h from the north. High tide was 11:17 am a fact which is averse to but for the adventurous and athletic types not prohibitive of cycling on the beach. For those of us Eskimos who ventured abroad today after breakfast, cycling or walking about Sea Pines, it was a refreshing start to the day and a welcome occasion to wear those garments we brought along in anticipation of this poetically denominated “Wintry Mix“.  If you care to know, the Pressure is currently 1,025 hPa (whatever that means). And I don’t need to be told that the Visibility is “clear right now“. The conditions are not what I consider normal for Hilton Head Island though we are naturally accustomed to this fleeting blend within the six-month compass of a typical sojourn here.

My animation at 7:30 am this morning was restrained. Last evening I retired close to 2:00 am after having mechanically – and shamefully – entertained myself with the toxic absurdities on TikTok. It is a vacuum I aim to avoid but the spiritous allure is tantalizing. The double triple-strength coffee may have had something to do with it as well. Anyway when I awoke this morning at my usual hour I hadn’t anything in particular on my mind, nothing planned, no shopping, nowhere I wanted or needed to go. Yesterday I had exhausted my compulsory domestic duties, groceries and haircut.  But I had skipped bicycling  – and the car wash – because of the inclement weather; viz., rain. It was the beginning of the cold snap that presently embraces us. I don’t dislike the cold – we have the gear for it – but the rain is annoying.

Although the sky this morning was grey and bleak we nonetheless succumbed to an elemental purgative necessity to move ourselves. The restoration was an 11.43 Km cycle to Tower Beach and back. Not what you’d call Olympic by any standard but nonetheless palliating. I confess I dozed almost immediately after having clumped myself on the swinging bench facing the sea. The dreamy evaporation must be a mixture of old age, abiding fatigue and fresh sea air. Our considered assessment is that drowsing is as much a part of life as the furniture.

There is no designated parking for our apartment building – or, what our estate agent suggestively calls “our villa”, a literary licence which succeeds to capture the sportive nautical theme impregnating the digs surrounding Harbour Town to which we are immediately adjacent.

Since our arrival here on December 1st last I have kept my eye on a parking space which nicely enables me to park with minimal concern for interruption or obstruction.  It is one of those spaces which is larger than most because it is the remnant at the end of an otherwise calculated succession of segments. For the most part I have been able to maintain the space.  But recently when we went to Key Largo I discovered upon our return that an automobile with New York plates had the impertinence to overtake the space.  I have since reclaimed it. The same brazen car now stations itself immediately next to mine – granted at a comfortably discrete distance. It was however not until today that I witnessed the driver of the vehicle.  She was walking her little dog.  She opened and closed her car door for some reason.  By coincidence I saw here again moments later when I returned to my car to fill the window washer reservoir.  She drove away. It constitutes an insignificant acquaintance but I cannot help but sense a peculiar association between us, vitalized as it is by a parking space which neither of us appears completely willing to disregard.

As I write, sipping my second cup of French Roast rocket fuel, the sun has reappeared, the sky is clear and blue. We approach the hour of five o’clock which has become our designated hour to consider the evening meal and to begin whatever preparations therefor are exigent. In my case the decision and assembly are simple.  His Lordship – shall I say, Chef – has a more complicated régime.